Tourmaline
by Dystopiarcadia
Summary: A vignette for the end of the training camp. Expect much Atoji fluff


Tourmaline

_Pairings _: Atobe/Jirou, a bit of Oshitari/Gakuto and Ohtori/Shishido

_Spoilers_ : small ones for episodes 113-114

_Disclaimer _: Not mine, just taking them out to play

_Summary_ : Just a little vignette at the end of the training camp –first fan fiction ever, please bear with me.. Terribly afraid of much OOCness here

* * *

Thinking back on it, Atobe Keigo found he couldn't quite pinpoint the exact time this.. situation had started. For a being so highly used to perfection in every aspect, the feeling was quite unsettling, to say the very least. Oh of course he could trace it back to the training matches they'd held this afternoon with the Seigaku regulars, that had ended with a tie in his game with Echizen, but that hardly explained why Jirou was now _snuggling_ on his lap, out of all places. The chain of events seemed entirely too much like the unexplainable leaps of logic the sleepy-head player collected, much as one collects stamps or butterflies, he idly mused.

It had all started innocently enough, of course: after their bus had taken the Hyotei regulars back to his 'cottage' –how the Seigaku members could call their ramshackle excuse for a cabin by the same denomination eluded him, since the place seemed on the verge of collapsing on their heads, as Oshitari had pointed out- , Atobe had gotten Kabaji to wake up the golden-haired player, which had taken even longer than usual, and involved the latter being practically carried to the dinner table, where he'd blearily opened one eye and then the other, seeming to realize where he was.

He appeared unfazed to wake up in a different place, but then again, Atobe figured it must have become something of a habit for him. Still, he had to hand it to the narcoleptic player, he remained the only member in the Hyotei team who had managed to arouse an interest.. no, that was not right, _intrigue_ him to a certain extent. Having been raised on principles laying ground rules for efficiency and flawlessness in all things ever since his childhood, the carefree attitude Jirou displayed –whenever he was awake, at any rate-, always manage to puzzle him, though he wouldn't quite admit it defeated the brilliant logic he exhibited continually.

His keen mind picked up the subtle changes in his behavior tonight, when even the most refined _hors d'oeuvre_ failed to elicit the yelps of pleasure or surprise normally displayed by the boy, flamboyant curls bouncing in the aftermath of an exclamation. Instead, he picked at his food, yawning, and barely replied when Oshitari and Gakuto excused themselves for the night, the red haired acrobat grinning impishly, dragging along his doubles partner who seemed to be sporting a particularly smug grin on his face. Atobe refrained himself from rolling his eyes –he was the host, after all, and this kind of behavior would be unsightly-, and instead offered silent words of admonishment to the architect who'd designed the insulation in the rooms. With any luck no sound would filter at all, else he'd have the poor sod's head on a platter.

Later that evening, the remaining regulars had drifted off to the living room, arraying themselves on the couches and armchairs artfully scattered in the large room, dark velvet curtains drawn to ward off the chill of the night while soft lighting was provided by Art Deco lamps placed strategically on low tables. A faint smile tugged at Atobe's features as he contemplated the harmony of the place. Perfect. Truly, it had been one of his best ideas to have the place redecorated to suit his refined tastes –the previous furnishings, inherited from a late uncle along with the cottage itself, had been nothing short of dreadful-. He shuddered, remembering the red and blue pinstripe wallpaper. He had thought at the time his eyes would never recover from the shock.

So lost was he in his own thoughts that the soft _thump _that was Jirou's head hitting his thighs took him entirely by surprise. To be truthful, the curly-haired player had not so much plopped on the sofa Atobe was elegantly draped on as stumbled over the armrest –god only knew had that happened in the first place- to fall headlong on his buchou's lap. The position looked decidedly uncomfortable, yet that wasn't enough of a deterrent to prevent Jirou from falling asleep on the spot. Atobe glanced up sharply, wondering if anyone had even noticed what'd just transpired: Hiyoshi was sitting at the far end of the room, reading a book borrowed from Atobe's expansive library, Ootori and Shishido were watching TV together on one of the sofas –though judging by the low volume of it, it was a wonder they could hear anything at all, and how had Shishido's arm ended up draped over his double's partner?-, and Kabaji.. no, he'd dismissed the quasi-silent giant to his room, telling him to recuperate after his match against Kikumaru Eiji.

Calmly assessing the situation, Atobe realized he had no other way but to deal with the matter himself.

However, the tangle of limbs sprawled haphazardly on the navy silk of the sofa seemed a blatant challenge at any form of reason or logic. There was just no way Jirou could remain asleep like this –after all, it wouldn't do to have his Singles Two player sore and strained in the morning-, and yet when Atobe found himself gently arranging the sleeping boy's limbs in a more orderly way, he wondered why he hadn't just shaken Jirou awake. Certainly it would have saved more time, yet.. for some unexplained reason, the curls felt nice as he inadvertently brushed his hand against them, and the warmth Jirou radiated was welcome, especially since he'd forgotten to slip on a vest.

Time stretched lazily as he reached for a book on a nearby table, flipping through the pages of the classic he'd long since memorized but which was still a pleasant read. He acknowledged Hiyoshi's departure as the lean blonde bade him goodnight, soon followed by Ohtori and Shishido, the former which seemed yet _again _to be blushing about something or other his partner had said –really, Atobe was starting considering taking the boy to his personal drama tutor, maybe he'd be able to get a grip on his feelings that way-, yet it only dawned on him when he closed the volume in his hands that he was now alone in the room with Jirou.

He sighed –not because this was unpleasant, far from it, but simply because he couldn't be bothered to rouse the butler or the maids to carry the sleeping boy to his room-. Truly, the things one had to resort to do when one was Atobe Keigo. Reaching down, he placed one hand on Jirou's shoulder, gently nudging him, to which the boy whose curls were tinted red by the ambient lighting responded by stirring faintly. As a response, Atobe's hand trailed downwards, in the crook where shoulder met neck, a soft patch of bare skin, and Jirou flinched a bit. Atobe promptly removed his hand, startled: since when did his touch inflict pain? Surely he knew how to control himself, not withstanding the fact that bestowing his touch upon anyone should have been considered a privilege, and certainly not a punishment.

Brows faintly furrowed, he tentatively brought his hand down to touch Jirou's neck again, and the boy visibly tensed this time, eyes fluttering open as a hand came up lazily to try and bat his buchou's away.

"Mmm.. 'tobe-san, it hurts.."

Jirou shifted so that he was now lying on his back, eyes already drooping as he tried to snuggle closer to his human pillow. However in doing so, he unwittingly entered the small pool of light emitted by the lamp placed at Atobe's side, and even under the soft warm hues his captain's eyes widened as he saw the dark smudges bruising the tender skin under Jirou's chin. What on earth…? Frantically he searched his memory for any incident that might have caused this, and promptly called to the forefront of his mind this afternoon's events. Jirou had been playing the bandanna-clad Seigaku and had been doing well, he recalled, though at the time he himself had been playing, therefore his concentration had been set on his own game. However he did remember feeling distracted when he'd heard Ohtori and Shishido yelling the name of their teammate, who had been lying on his back… _knocked out_ in fact, by the sheer power of the Hadoukyuu combined with the Boomerang Snake thrown by his opponent.

Atobe froze, his hand hovering just above Jirou's neck, feeling white-hot flashes of anger directed at the player nicknamed by many "Viper". How dare he injure one of his precious teammates? Also, he reflected as he gazed at the sleeping form, why hadn't Jirou notified anyone of his condition? Truly, it was just like him to go on with his life as though nothing had happened. Atobe shook his head, understanding at last the reasons behind Jirou's lack of appetite this evening. For despite his diva attitude, he took pride in knowing and caring about his teammates: they were under his responsibility, after all, and their well-being was part of the equation, though in certain cases he felt he was not needed to provide said contentment –despite the thick walls, he detected the faintest thumps coming from the direction of Oshitari's and Gakuto's twin bedroom.

It was this string of logic that led Atobe to carry Jirou to his own bedroom, for the latter's was in the far eastern wing of the mansion, whereas Atobe's was just up the stairs, overlooking the magnificent moonlit gardens. In the silent house in the dead of the night, everything seemed to take on a logic of its own, unperturbed by rational thinking or feeble protests of the conscious mind. Still, a twinge of doubt as to whether this was really a good idea passed through the young millionaire's head as standing next to his own luxurious bed, his charge balanced in his arm, he found his right wrist giving way, resulting in a none-too-gracious landing of the curly blonde on the satin sheets, a muffled yelp escaping his lips as his head lodged in a couple of pillows.

Rolling over on his side, curls cascading in the motion, the smaller boy brought a hand to his face, rubbing the sleep away, eyes blinking at the new scenery. "Ne, Atobe, why are we.." his voice trailed off as he took in the fleeting look of pain that crossed Atobe's features for a moment, and he sat up abruptly, wincing unconsciously as he craned his head to see what was wrong with his buchou. "Aww, what happened? I hope it's not my fault, Atobe!"

Unbeknownst to the now awake Jirou, the taller purple-haired boy was lost in the contemplation of his eyes, widened in tune with the guilt in his voice as he blamed the incident on himself. Atobe barely heard Jirou's continued apologies and worries as a voice he didn't recognize as his own uttered:

"Tourmaline."

"Eeeeh? Is Atobe-san feeling ill?" Quite literally jumping off the bed, Jirou reached up to touch his captain's forehead, drawing back his hand as he noticed Atobe held his right wrist cradled in his left hand. "Aiiiii Atobe-san injured himself carrying me and now we need to fix this or Atobe-san will me mad at me and it will be BAD!"

"Jirou", came the unusually subdued voice of the owner of the bedroom, and surrounding grounds. "I'm fine." But the curly-haired tennis player was already dragging him into the adjacent bathroom, an extravagant affair of salmon-hued and white tiles lined with grey-veined marble, in the middle of which stood a bath so wide it was almost like a small pool. It was on this that Atobe found himself forcefully sat, while his teammate bounced about the room, opening cupboards and drawers in search of… the exact nature of the quest was as of yet unclear to the purple-haired teen.

For the second time this evening, he caught himself frowning, and schooled his features as he glimpsed at himself in one of the tall mirrors lining the walls. Once again the situation had gone out of hand in a matter of seconds, yet this time the fault lied within him, hard as it was to admit it. It was his own carelessness that had led him to overlook the strain on his wrist after the game with the Seigaku rookie, yet he couldn't quite fathom why the sight of Jirou's eyes had caused such a bizarre reaction. Was it because he had never before had the chance to ascertain what color they were? But such reasoning was preposterous, for what use could he possibly make of this information? Why did it matter that he'd always assumed that the sleepy player's eyes were dark brown, when he'd definitely glimpsed a twinge of deep red, and yes, there was gold sparkling in those dark wine orbs, he could see it clearly..

Wait. When had Jirou kneeled next to him, taking his wrist as though it was a fragile bird that'd fly away given the occasion, looking at him as though asking for permission to wrap the stretch band he held loosely in one hand? Soft words of protest came half-heartedly to his lips, yet even as he reassured the bobbing head of curls of his physical condition, he felt himself despite all odds enjoying the feeling of the callused yet soft fingers adeptly working on his wrist, occasionally brushing against the skin of his forearm. Jirou was skilled in this particular field, and was all too soon –now where had _that _come from? - done. He glanced down at his bandaged wrist, still resting in Jirou's hands, and seemed to regain some control over his senses, as he delicately untwined the fingers circling his wrist, and made to get up, stopping only when he heard, in a voice that was already laden with sleep:

"Is Atobe-san feeling better now? I-I tried to do the best I could, really!"

He blinked, and stopped in his motion, a faint smile gracing his features as his hand traced the soft contours of Jirou's face, effectively stopping the smaller boy in his protests. The moment felt special somehow, and he wasn't about to let Jirou's self-inflicted burden of guilt spoil that for them –instead he rose gracefully to his feet, and placed his hands on the other boy's shoulders, idly toying with the idea of stroking those golden curls. He really had to stop this train of thought, and so without further ado he motioned Jirou towards the spot where he had previously been sitting. As soon as he was settled, Atobe began looking for –ah, where was it, he was sure it was in that drawer.. there. Jirou just looked at him curiously, blinking a few times as Atobe turned to face him once more.

"Thank you, Jirou."

"Eeeh? It was ok, really, I mean I hope I did it well and stuff because sometimes the band can get too tight, and then it ends up not being comfortable at all and I wouldn't want that but of course I had practice putting those on I mean with tennis and all.."

The tirade was suddenly cut short as several things seemed to happen at once : for one, Jirou realized that despite everything, he still had to draw breath from time to time, and more surprisingly, Atobe-san was _applying something to his neck _and oh he had to kneel on the tile floor and now Jirou hoped it was okay because he didn't want Atobe-san to be angry at him for getting the bruise and really it wasn't that bad it didn't hurt too much and.. oh he was done already, he realized with a twinge of regret. He liked Atobe-san, and his hands felt wonderful and wasn't it strange to think that? Things were starting to get a bit blurry now, and he yawned, noticing it caused him less discomfort than before, wow that cream-thing must really work, and now Atobe-san was shaking him just a bit…

"Jirou? Jirou, wake up. I do not advise you to fall asleep in the bathroom. I.."

Atobe stopped, perplexed at the outstretched arms the sleepy boy was presently extending towards him. Surely he didn't expect..? But then again, he _had _carried Jirou up to his room, so a bit further couldn't hurt, right? Inwardly shaking his head at this bout of illogical reasoning, he nonetheless accepted the invitation, and swept the slighter player off his feet, towards the large bed set in the middle of the bedroom. What a sight we must make, he thought before setting Jirou down on one side of the bed, where he immediately proceeded to curl into a ball. The purple-haired teen looked at his sleeping companion, only mildly disturbed when the words 'cute' and 'adorable' came to mind. Sometimes Jirou looked just too much like a puppy, albeit a puppy who'd invaded his lap.. and bed.

Ah well. It was big enough for two. Truth be told, he could probably fit all of Hyotei's regulars on the bed, but.. now _that_ was something he didn't particularly want to envision, especially if that would entail close proximity of Shishido and Gakuto.. No. He definitely wasn't going there. The drama queens of the team were not holding a screaming and bitching contest, even in the darker recesses of his mind –and especially not on his bed-. Speaking of bed.. he knew it must be quite late, and well past bedtime, therefore he wasted no more time in slipping out of his shirt and pants, neatly laying them out on a chair beside the bed. Dark silk boxers were all that were left when he padded over to the bed, throwing a pair of pajamas to Jirou, who opened a tentative eye when the soft fabric landed on him.

"Put these on, you can't sleep in jeans. I'm sure even _you _would find that a bother"

A muttered unintelligible response was all he got, but he saw out of the corner of his eye Jirou tugging off his t-shirt and jeans, who landed in a crumpled ball on the floor. He turned around, reaching for the light switch and banning images of a finely toned body, slim and muscular and lightly tanned… The lights were off. Luckily he knew where the bed was, so he didn't stumble into anything as he slipped under the sheets, keeping his back firmly to the other boy. What was happening to him tonight? The whole evening made little to no sense to the flawless Hyotei tennis captain. He shifted a bit, and tensed when he sensed a hand on his shoulder, tugging and beckoning him to turn the other way.

"Ne, Atobe-san... What is 'tourmaline'?"

He pronounced the last word hesitantly, a trace of uncertainty in his sleep-laden voice. The hand dropped as Atobe turned to lie on his back, a thoughtful expression mirrored in his eyes and a faint smile reaching his lips.

"You actually remembered? I didn't think you would.."

Jirou nestled closer to him, apparently deciding a human pillow beat any inanimate counterpart, and Atobe started in a low voice, one hand stroking the blonde curls on which the moonlight cast bluish shadows: "There is an old Egyptian legend that speaks of this gemstone, Tourmaline.. According to the story, the gem traveled from the heart of the Earth up to the Sun along a rainbow, and in doing so it gained all of its colours… Just like you, Jirou." He said the last sentence in all but a whisper, imagining the warm presence at his side to be fast asleep by now, and was more than a little surprised when the latter trailed a hand across his chest, slight fingers moving up and down in small patterns.

"But I'm not a rock, Atobe-san!" and he playfully took the taller boy's hand to demonstrate that fact, running it across his face until a chuckle –a rare occurrence indeed from the impeccably mannered young man- escaped from Atobe's lips, as he reclaimed possession of his hand to lightly tap it against Jirou's head : "Silly. I was talking about your eyes." And he left it at that, choosing to turn on his side once more. A bare few moments later he felt a pair of arms snaking around him, and he sighed softly, feeling contented for the first time in a long while. Sleep was slowly but surely claiming the both of them…

"Jirou?"

"Hmm..?"

"Where are the pajamas I lent you?"

The End.


End file.
